A MADDENED WALKER could only wander a short distance before encountering impenetrable, cobblestone walls enclosing them. There were four of these walls, bordering civilization like a confining, solitary square. 

Meandering proved inevitable for a maddened walker, their frail, malnourished bodies quickly succumbing to exhaustion, hunger and thirst—mortality, their only inhibitor. 

Figures in red cloaks meticulously threaded through the abyssal plains, the only other lot daring enough to traverse the dark, desolate landscape. They skillfully avoided the sunken patches of dead earth, moving in a winding path reminiscent of a maddened walker's aimless journey. 

Their strides were deliberate yet swift, knowing their time near the abyss should be ephemeral—a stark reminder for anyone who valued their fleeting life.

Abyssal pools called Voids were at the depths of the depressions in the dead soils and their volumes undulated, reflecting not a sliver of light, mist spreading across their surfaces. Dried, trees twisted, their branches away from the pools — retreats rendered pointless now that they were dead. 

The resounding steps of the cloaked figures juxtaposed the Void's eerie hymns. The voices did not relent. Whispers from the pools. Husk songs in unfathomable languages. But the sinister babel did not impede the cloaked lot. 

They neared one of the Void pools, weapons at their sides, lanterns of dim, sputtering flames in their hands, and tenacity etched behind their minds.

Their crimson hoods covered their eyes, as red as blood: red, to avoid confusion among themselves against the blackness that was the Void. Red, to mark the irrevocable deeds done of which their hands could not be washed. And red, to mark themselves as Conquerors. 

"We're nearing close to the main source, Comrades," said the man ahead of them all. 

The group of Conquerors looked more like a man and his entourage. There was a man drawing toward the black pool of Void and a group of twelve in pursuit.

One of the followers broke away from the order, hurrying over to the man ahead of them all.

There was a slight variation to this man's cloak. There were stripes of pure gold, and its cloth was much thicker. But the differentiation did not waver the breaking follower's resolve.

"Why've you broken the formation, new one?" Asked the man, still walking as his subordinate fell in beside him.

"I beg your forgiveness," said the cloaked subordinate, "but I implore you to allow me, leader. Let me engage." It was a soft voice of little sonority. 

The leader scoffed. "And who might you be?"

"The new one, sir Bael."

"I know that," he said, "what is your name?"

The subordinate raised a hand and reached for the back of their hood, lowering it until it was behind their neck. An ethereal face was revealed: certainly not a face for war. Their blonde hair reached their upper neck, their eyes were strangely coloured — one hazel and one violet. Their cheekbones were high, and their face was round.

They looked at the leader. "I am Zya Freymond of the preliminary phase, sir."

"You are in the preliminary phase of your recruitment and you're already putting yourself on the line?" Bael scoffed again. "Please, Zya, return to your position. Your opportunity to show off is through sticking to orders." He hadn't turned his head to look at her once. "Oh and, I need not a soldier who'd amount to a vessel for Void. Put your hood back over your head and do not stare."

Zya's blood boiled. He disrespected her. Her face tinged red, and she balled her fists from the thought of his words. Positions make people think they are the shit, she thought, I knew I'd hate him. She fumed but quickly clenched her jaw and deflated, falling back in position with the others. 

Placing her hood over her head, she sighed. It's not worth the hassle, she thought. If I do too much anyway, they'll accuse me of illegal usage of Void power.

Bael neared the largest pool of blackness, which remained slightly shrouded by the mist. Shortly, he heard sinister whispers chanting his name softly but deafeningly at the same time, emanating from the pool itself. The calls were to no end. They grew stronger. Bael! Come, Bael! Closer! 

Then a masculine scream broke out from ahead, startling the group of Conquerors. 

Bael gestured to the group of subordinates behind him, and they all halted their motion accordingly. They remained some ten metres away from him, watching as he neared the large pool. 

Zya frowned. "What is he doing?"

"Silence, novice," said someone in the group.

"Dare not question sir Bael's choice of action," said another, "it was already out of line to stupidly offer your trivial assistance to a man of such calibre."

Zya chose not to respond. She quelled herself, but her thoughts remained loud as she watched the leader. 

Bael stopped at the pool, inching a hand closer and closer to the black pool from which he could not see his reflection. Bael's calloused hand drew toward the pool until his hand had touched it. The liquid undulates, rings in the water spanning and fading around the hand. 

Suspensefully, the group of onlookers looked on at their leader with the little line of sight the mist had allowed. 

Bael lingered in this position for quite some time until he had decided he'd stand. He stood, looking at the hand with which he had touched the Void. His hand was not wet to the slightest degree. He lowered it to his side and turned around to his comrades. 

"This Void seems free of Spawn, people," he said, " however, it still doesn't explain the anomalous readings we've been picking up on our radar from here so remember that we tread on thin ice as you proceed for inspection—"

Suddenly, the pool churned. Then again. Once more. Finally, a huge volume of the black liquid thrust into the air alongside a figure that looked much like a man. Bael furrowed his brows, spinning around, his unwavering glare as strong as the steel in the scabbard at his side; the steel that he reached for. 

One of his subordinates suddenly appeared in front of him in defence. He aimed a bow and arrow at the figure in the pool of Void — his leader, Sir Bael, behind him.

The pool churned again. A dark figure, an amalgamation of flesh and shadow rose from the pool of night. It faced the figure—so human—that rose first, reaching for it relentlessly. It emanated a blood-crawling shriek. 

"Help me!" Sounded from the humanoid figure in the pool, barely a husk whisper that served as a shout; and a call that resonated with Zya Freymond. 

A bewildered yet curious countenance grew on her face as she heard speech from the Void. A human? She asked herself. But in the depths of the Void? A walker — an absurd walker, someone who'd tried to end their life! Or was it all just martyrdom?

"Fire!" Sir Bael snapped. 

The archer, Sal, frowned. He furrowed his brows. He clenched his teeth. Do not, miss, Sal, do not miss. Not this time! He fired an arrow at the dark figure. It pierced through the dark figure's skull. I did it! 

The dark figure fell forward onto the other figure in the pool. The humanoid figure pushed it off its chest and it sank into the undulating darkness below. 

"Take aim, boy," Sir Bael said sternly. What is that thing, he thought, in all my years, I'm yet to face a monster of sentience. 

Sal rested an arrow on the bow's rest and pulled the string back, aiming at the humanoid figure in the pool. I did it once, he thought, I can do it again. 

Zya quickly fell out of position and rushed toward the two.

Sal was about to fire when he heard the figure groan. The figure was half-submerged in the black pool. It moved toward the archer, struggling. It shuddered relentlessly, raising both its hands in the air.

The Archer took a step back and clenched his teeth.

"N-No!" whispered the figure with a husky voice, putting Zya on her toes. 

Bael snapped. "What in The Nine's name are you waiting for! Fire—"

"Wait!" shouted Zya, sliding in front of the archer, her arms outstretched. Cold air ensuing her breaths. 

The archer suddenly quailed. He released the arrow. It burst through the air. She blocked. It penetrated her raised hand.  

She groaned. "D-don't fire, Sal!"

"What are you doing, Zya!" Sal snapped, lowering his bow. "I could have killed you! Get out of the way—that thing's behind you!"

Zya turned around, keeping her arms outstretched. The figure in the pool … looked human. It was radically naked, with clean yet pale skin. Its hands were in front of its head. It remained partially submerged in the water, shuddering in the cold beckoned by the void. 

"Sal, I command you to eliminate Zya!" Bael said sonorously.

Sal hesitated. "W-what did you say, sir?" 

"She has been possessed," Sir Bael said, "by the Void. A dire consequence of raising her hood and revealing eyes in a place like this. Kill her or I'll do it myself!"

Sal reached for a bow in the quiver attached to the back of his cloak. 

Zya turned around, lowering her hands to her side. "Sal, lower your weapon. There is no need for it."

"No!" Sal quickly placed the arrow on his arrow rest, intertwining a finger with its shaft, and pulling back the string. "You've been possessed, Zya!"

"I haven't," she pulled an arrow from her right hand, groaned, and dropped it, "I'm sane. You people are the ones who are insane. The man who resides in the Void poses no danger to us."

Bael shoved Sal aside and stood before Zya. "Do not be a fool, fresh. What makes you think that!"

"He speaks," Zya said. 

"That's of no significance to me," Bael said, "now get out of my way."

"Think of one of the Void's spawns that actually spoke words to us," Zaya gawked as Bael averted his gaze slightly. "I implore you to. Right, you can't. This man might just be a Walker or a newborn, now cease your action."

Bael scowled. "Are you commanding me, commoner?" Bael's body started to shudder in rage. Strange energy to his body manifested out of the blue. He deliberately inched toward Zaya.

And she sensed every bit of his malice.

"Sir, wait!" A man rushed over to them. 

He panted. His action was driven by the words of Zya, which resonated with him. He believed himself to be the brain of the regime and he could not hold a second more watching the scenario unfold. 

"What the girl speaks of could be true. This creature—if truly Spawn—would be the first to have sentience among all others. Sure, it could merely be evolution, but if this were an evolved spawn, I'm sure we'd all be at war at this very instant. And while I do not agree with Zya on the creature being a newborn because of its spoken, I'm not against the odds of it being measly a Walker. We haven't asked questions yet to know but to kill should not be the first resort, just this time, sir."

Bael looked over his shoulder at the man for a bit. Then, he redirected his head at Zya. A hint of scorn on his face. "You played with fire  …" he trailed off, "Zya Freymond." 

He then gestured a hand in the air. "Alright everyone, don't let your guards down. We're in Void territory — we all want to return home and have a nice drink. Bind the creature cautiously but kill if it attacks."

Zya turned to the pool again, lowering her hood. She felt a warmth trickling down her cheeks on the same path of tears. She wiped at her face, she saw blood on her hands but she couldn't be bothered with this. The creature remained in the same position, trembling in the pool. The sinister whispers fell softer now and were frail in the likes of Zya's loud thoughts. The creature's long, jet black hair was in front of its face, obscuring its identity. 

Zya watched as a few cloaked men approached the pool of darkness and inched toward the creature partially submerged in it. They were about to be the first Conquerors in history to abduct what they deemed Void's Spawn for investigation. But to Zya, this was no Spawn. It was a Walker from whom she expected answers. And as she glanced back at Bael, she wondered how far she'd crossed the line and how far he would go to uncover those expected answers.